


The Phantom Pilgrim and The Bluebird

by skimmingthesurface



Series: The Reluctant Hero [2]
Category: Gravity Falls, Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: Angst, Bad Puns, Breaking Up & Making Up, Childhood Friends, Communication Failure, Established Relationship, Fighting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Overprotective nerds, Pinescone Week 2019, pinescone, superhero au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-02 23:24:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21169607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface
Summary: For Pinescone Week 2019Day 4: "I almost lost you."It had been a while since he’d had to face an actual arch nemesis, Wirt reflected as he carefully folded up his everyday clothes and tucked them into his backpack. Not until she showed up. Or flew in, rather.Someone had spotted the Bluebird by Fisherman’s Wharf.-A continuation of The Reluctant Hero AU, where Wirt is a somehow a superhero and this is his life now. With the help of his childhood best friend turned boyfriend, Dipper Pines, the two of them work together to keep the bay area sleeping safely at night. And are also trying to get to the bottom of what their newest foe is up to that involves gas stations, libraries, bakeries, and the Chabot Science and Space Center...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's late! I'm a little disappointed, but it's not my fault. I ended up having to work an extra two hours tonight to prepare for my work's Halloween event tomorrow. It was for a good cause, but it definitely set me back. So, technically Day 4 is over, but I wrote this for it anyway, so please enjoy!
> 
> If you've read The Reluctant Hero, there is quite a time jump here. Wirt and Dipper are twenty-three in this, and I hope to fill in the gaps at some point. I still have a lot of ideas for this AU! Story of my life, right?

Wirt had been in the middle of showing a rival real agent and a couple view one of the Victorians he was selling in Haight-Ashbury when he received the notification from Dipper. They’d upgraded from police scanner apps on their phones years ago and now had a direct line to any major criminal activity within the bay area. Plus, Dipper was pretty active on Twitter and his followers liked to tweet him about anything and everything that could attract the attention of the Phantom Pilgrim… if he was in need of a good story idea, that is. 

He was already on his way, so Wirt had to politely usher the agent and potential buyers out of the house as fast as possible. It was for the best. The wife wanted to tear down all the walls and put in a concrete floor throughout. Wirt’s clients could find better buyers.

As he shut the door behind him and locked up, Wirt waited until they were out of sight, then teleported back into the house. He hastily unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a navy blue bodysuit beneath it, with a dark red P emblazoned across his chest. A dark red flush also crept into his cheeks as he stripped, still self-conscious even when he was alone. Even after seven years of this.

He opened his backpack and pulled out the rest of his costume. His cowl and cape, gloves, and boots. All of them a shimmering midnight blue with accents of red and gray stitched through.

While his everyday clothes couldn’t turn invisible, the Phantom Pilgrim’s costume was designed with that specific power in mind. Ford Pines, with Dipper’s invaluable assistance, had worked tirelessly to perfect microscopic cloaking chips that could be embedded in strands of thread. Once knitted together, they would activate at the slightest microbial shift in Wirt’s cells, ensuring the entire suit would turn invisible as he did.

It was more scientific than that, when you got down to the finer details, but that had the unfortunate side effect of giving Wirt a pounding headache whenever he thought too deeply on it. Science wasn’t his strongest subject in school. He had endured months of random genetic testing after they’d finally told Dipper’s great uncle about his powers, who was, conveniently enough, one of the top scientists at the Chabot Science and Space Center, with countless tools at his disposal. Without his help, Wirt was certain that he wouldn’t have made it as far as he had as a superhero.

“We would’ve figured something out,” Dipper assured him on more than one occassion. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Could he be blamed when ninety percent of his drive to do anything was fueled by Dipper Pines himself? Maybe a fraction of it split with his younger brother. Greg could be very convincing when he wanted to be, and he almost always wanted to be.

But Wirt couldn’t think about them now. He needed to get in the moment. Taking a few deep breaths, Wirt rolled his shoulders and made the necessary mental shift to go from being a meek, mild-mannered real estate agent to the Phantom Pilgrim. The Phantom Pilgrim couldn’t afford any distractions, especially not with this.

It had been a while since he’d had to face an actual arch nemesis, Wirt reflected as he carefully folded up his everyday clothes and tucked them into his backpack.

Gideon Gleeful didn’t count. While the self-proclaimed super villain the Psychic - “More like the  _ psycho_,” Dipper had snorted when he first heard the name - had been dabbling in minor crimes and major inconveniences since they’d been in high school, he was honestly more of a super annoyance than a super villain. And super creepy when it came to his weird obsession with Mabel.

Then there had been the Beast… the deformed creature that might have once been a man who had the power to absorb all light and life with a single touch. Wirt didn’t know who he was or who he’d been, if he’d ever been someone at all. He’d only met him in person twice, but Wirt still had nightmares from their last encounter. The Beast had infiltrated the Children’s Hospital in Oakland, steadily consuming the lives of everyone inside. Though he’d been invisible, pressed into the corner of the cafeteria, Wirt couldn’t shake the chilling sensation that when the empty white gaze of the shadowed creature fell upon where he stood, he could still  _ see _ him.

It was by a stroke of pure luck that he’d managed to chase him away. He’d lured him to the radiology floor and encased himself in a forcefield while Dipper and Ford talked him through how to work the x-ray machine. The Beast had screeched, an unearthly sound that hollowed out hearts and seeped into skin, and contorted into himself before he slithered away into the shadows. He hadn’t shown himself since. 

Dipper kept tabs on any unusual activity - massive power outages, rapid decay in regional foliage and flora, and sudden deaths in a ten mile radius that numbered in the hundreds - but nothing popped up on his radar for months. It frustrated both of them that this was the best they could do, but they just didn’t have much to go off of when it came to the Beast. Psychological warfare at its finest. Wirt would wake from his nightmares, shaking and sweating and alone in their bedroom, only to find Dipper in their office, hunched over his computer, drenched in the blue gray light of the monitor as he checked up on any and all leads well into the early hours of the morning.

All it took was for Wirt to slide his arms around him from behind and press his lips to the top of his head to coax him into coming to bed on nights like that, but he’d prefer it if Dipper was actually  _ in _ their bed with him from the start. Safe and close enough to encase in a forcefield or teleport away should anything happen. He might’ve had a secret identity, but would it really take all that much to find the chinks in it and crack it open?

Wirt and Dipper had been officially dating since their senior year in high school, going on five years now, and anyone who came into contact with them could see how stupidly and sappily in love they were. Dipper had also, over the course of five years, risen through the ranks at the Piedmont Periodical, their local newspaper. People were gripped by his incredibly detailed and fact-driven articles surrounding the mysterious Phantom Pilgrim, to the point where he was actually pursued by and offered a job at the Bay Bugle, the biggest paper to circulate in the entire San Francisco Bay Area. While the articles spoke for themselves, Dipper’s prowess with the written word unmatched and unmeasured by any modern writer in Wirt’s opinion, it didn’t hurt that he had easy access to some exclusive insider information. And he provided his own pictures.

Not to mention Wirt’s own face was scattered throughout the region on various business cards and advertisements. Maybe real estate wasn’t the best profession to get into when you wanted to remain anonymous, but he knew a lot about the housing market and the value of older homes in their area and they had to pay their bills  _ somehow_. Living in California was not cheap, even if you happened to be a vigilante superhero. 

But if someone just so happened to pull up Wirt’s real estate ad next to a glossy action shot of the Phantom Pilgrim… well, it wouldn’t take a genius to put the pieces together.

Still, no one had figured it out yet, not even Gideon, but that didn’t mean Wirt wasn’t worrying about it every second of every day. Ford assured him that the initial costume he’d designed for him helped conceal his more defining features, and when Mabel and Dipper took over, they made sure to include similar elements like his flowy hood and capelet. As long as no one got too close or removed his mask, no one would know.

Wirt slipped on said mask, then clipped the capelet and cowl around his shoulders and flipped up his hood. As stated before, aside from the Beast and the Psycho, Wirt didn’t have much in terms of an arch nemesis. Not until she showed up. Or flew in, rather.

Someone had spotted the Bluebird by Fisherman’s Wharf.

The Phantom Pilgrim had crossed paths with her several times now, and with each encounter the stakes grew. She seemed to be keen on robbery, having hit a number of interesting - if very random - targets, including the Chabot Science and Space Center. Astonishingly enough, Ford confirmed that not a single one of their top secret projects had been compromised. The Bluebird hadn’t even gone near them. The only thing she’d taken was an alarming amount of tetrachloroethylene. She’d also siphoned gallons of gasoline from various gas stations, stolen archived film negatives from libraries all over the city, and robbed a bank.

The Phantom Pilgrim managed to thwart most of her attempted thefts, but she didn’t make it easy for him. Not that criminals ever really made it easy for him, but she was something different. Far above Gideon’s level, but not quite as otherworldly as the Beast, the Bluebird possessed a unique array of super abilities much like Wirt himself did.

Turning invisible just to be on the safe side, the Phantom Pilgrim teleported right in front of Pier 39. The dull roar of many conversations at once burst out of nothingness, suddenly loud and all-encompassing as he materialized in the midst of a crowd of tourists. The smell of the bay and seafood cooking away for the late dinner rush and the neon lights of tourist traps assaulted his senses for a dizzying second of vertigo. It always passed quickly, like blinking, and he adjusted.

Deftly slipping through the gaps between bodies, the Pilgrim scanned each one for a stray lock of fiery red hair or skin smattered with freckles. Sparrow or Robin might have suited her more due to her hair color, but every time he’d seen her she’d been dressed in blues, similar to himself. Dipper had been the one to coin her name after their second run-in. It fit, somehow. She even seemed to like it, if the calling card she left at the library was anything to go by. Just a single blue feather.

The earpiece he had sewn into his mask beeped once, letting him know it was online before his boyfriend’s voice came through. “Hey, Pilgrim. About time.”

He teleported to a higher vantage point, away from anyone who might be listening in. “Don’t give me that,” he murmured. “Like you didn’t just get here.”

“You’ll never convict,” Dipper laughed and Wirt’s lips quirked up as his heart warmed with the sound. “So we have some reported movement near Powell and Embarcadero. Looks like Fisherman’s Wharf was just en route. Head west.”

“Will do. Got anything else for me to go off of?”

“You’ll know the second I do.”

The Pilgrim teleported to the top of the Pier 43 Ferry arch, out of the way of any potential pedestrian run-ins. She’d picked a very populated place to try anything nefarious. It was only eight o’clock in the evening, so there were still plenty of people about. The summer chill not enough to send anyone home just yet. The sunset cast its golden glow over the Golden Gate Bridge and glittered off the bay, the kind of night you usually saw immortalized in postcards.

He spied a clear spot on Embarcadero, so teleported there next, then fell into step with the crowds. Nothing yet, but he could be patient. Stakeouts and surveillance were where he excelled, while Dipper tended to get antsy if he didn’t see some kind of action. It never failed to astound Wirt that his boyfriend could spend hours researching and falling down rabbit holes, but the second he had nothing to distract his busy mind with he became as bad as Greg on a road trip.

Something caught his eye, on the roof of Boudin Bakery. The Pilgrim narrowed his gaze, scanning the roofline just in case it was a bird or something, but sure enough a hooded figure was crouched near the edge. Gracefully, she swung down, held aloft by only her grip on the gutter, and disappeared into an open window.

“Got her,” Pilgrim murmured into the earpiece, then teleported into the factory of the sourdough bread company.

While the cafe was still serving freshly baked breads and clam chowder, the factory itself was closed for the night. It was all dark and shadowed, only the bleeding orange and purple of twilight spilling in through the windows to guide him. Staying invisible, the Pilgrim tucked himself into a corner, surveying the industrial space in its entirety as he puzzled out the Bluebird’s goal.

Sure, San Francisco was known for its sourdough bread for a reason, but that didn’t seem like good enough motivation to break in and steal it. It made about as much sense as the rest of her targets, which was not at all. What did she need with old film negatives, gasoline, and sourdough bread? What was the goal?

Dipper had a board up for her back home with all sorts of theories, and Wirt could easily imagine his frustration at being handed another oddly shaped puzzle piece. They still didn’t know quite what to do with the piece they’d picked up when they saw her help a lost child once, taking them by the hand while they searched for their family, a way home. Maybe she just had a soft spot for kids, but a part of Wirt wondered if maybe deep down she wasn’t so bad.

Maybe there was more to her than that. Aside from the bank, her other crimes seemed bizarrely minor, after all. Maybe there was still hope for her.

He held his breath as a figure moved between the machinery. She strolled among the empty baking racks as if she had all the time in the world, hands tucked in the front pocket of a baggy blue sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over her head. She paired it with some leggings and flats, looking more like an overcaffeinated college student who hadn’t slept for two days than a nemesis. 

She came to a stop by something that looked like a small vault, whistling to herself as she inspected it. Whatever was in there must’ve been what she was after, but she didn’t even attempt to break into it. She just stood there for a good minute before finally sighing and pulling down her hood.

Her vivid red hair was pulled up in a messy bun, some stray strands brushing her neck as she rolled it. “You just going to stand there all night, Invisiboy? Or can we get this over with already?”

Wirt’s breath caught and his heart stuttered in his chest, his own sense of self overtaking his persona for a second. He hadn’t said anything and he was still very much invisible, how did she know he was there? Silently he took a few steps closer to her, seeking a better vantage point.

“It was cute the first couple of times, I’ll admit that,” she continued, “but now it’s just getting on my nerves. I don’t have time to play games with you, kid. Either run on home or stop hiding and come out and face me in a fair fight.”

“We both have superpowers, I’d say that makes things pretty fair,” he replied, watching her scan the bakery for any sign of him, relieved to see that she couldn’t actually tell where he was.

“‘Superpowers?’ What are you, twelve?”

He swallowed, moving so she wouldn’t be able to pinpoint his location. “What else would you call them?”

“Something that doesn’t sound like it came from a comic book,” she drawled. “But seriously, that’s all it took to get you to talk? Not even gonna try and sneak up on me?”

“Who says I still can’t?”

She snorted. “Please. You and I both know I can fly circles around you. I’m just trying to save you from another humiliating defeat.”

“I think it’s worth the risk. Or better yet, worth the… ‘whisk.’”

The Bluebird went still and silent for a minute. Pilgrim held his breath, biting back a smile as his direct line to Dipper stayed silent too. They used the communication line when necessary, but in the middle of a confrontation, Dipper knew not to risk distracting him in any way. Even to cringe and criticize his puns.

“Was that…” The Bluebird struggled to find her footing still and he took the time to teleport to the opposite side of the room, near the baking supplies instead of the empty racks. “Did you just make a  _ baking _ pun?”

“Maybe.”

“Cheese and crackers,” she groaned.

“I mean, baking and entering is a serious offense, and the punishment should fit the crime.”

“If I wasn’t already planning on killing you, I’d kill you just for that.” She glowered at the room as a whole, to make up for not being able to see him.

“I could dough this all night.”

“I hate you.”

“You’re the one who broke into a bakery. You should really think twice about where you set the scene of the crime if you want to avoid things like this in the future. Or, you know, you could turn your life around. Make batter choices.”

“Mix things up?” she suggested after a beat.

The Pilgrim pursed his lips, something about her tone setting him on edge so he steadied his stance. “Yeah, maybe. If you’re using the right ingredients.” 

“How about flour?”

He frowned. “What’s that a pun for?”

“This.”

The Bluebird kicked over one of the empty racks so it toppled into another, then another, like dominoes. The last one jostled a shelf with a bag of flour on it, causing it to spill. He realized this plan too late, and his arm was coated in white before he managed to teleport out of its path.

She saw where he teleported to as a puff of flour materialized across the room. Hefting up a massive, stainless steel mixing bowl, she chucked it right at him like it weighed nothing more than a whiffle ball. He caught it mentally before it struck him, then flung it away. The clatter reverberated in the empty factory, as did the loud  _ thwap _ of a pair of wings. 

Pilgrim put up a forcefield as the Bluebird charged at him, a blue feathered wing smacking against it in an attempt to knock him off his feet. He gave up on invisibility, not wanting to waste the energy on maintaining it when she could see him anyway. She grinned when she could look him in the eye, her wings fluttering as she spread them wide. They stretched out from her back, full and powerful enough to lift her off the ground and up to a catwalk overhead. She swung one out, strong and sharp so it snapped the tether of an overhead light and sent it crashing down. Pilgrim teleported out of its path, another forcefield protecting him from the glass that sprayed up as a result.

“Do we really have to do this?” he called up to her, attempting to brush some of the flour off his arm while he had a second to breathe. “Puns aside, I don’t think you’re as mean as you make yourself out to be. I think- I think you  _ could _ make better choices-”

“Yeah, well no one cares what you think.”

Pilgrim gasped, offended. “Well, that’s rude.”

“Well, what do you expect from someone who goes around stealing stuff? You think I’m gonna use manners?”

She made a fair point. Pilgrim picked up the mixing bowl with his telekinesis and flung it up to the catwalk. Bluebird’s wings fluttered as she avoided the collision and the subsequent reverberations that traveled through the metal.

“Come up here and fight me yourself, coward.”

He teleported directly in front of her and smacked her with a wooden spoon. She punched at him, stopped by the barrier of his forcefield, but still strong enough to send him skidding back a bit. She lunged at him and he teleported behind her and dropped the forcefield.

“God, you’re such a pushover! Do you always do everything people tell you to do?”

“Not always,” he hummed, then ducked to avoid one of her wings as she whirled to face him.

She tried to land a few more punches, the Pilgrim choosing this time to block them with his arms, each of them encased in his iridescent barrier as he protected his face and torso from each blow. Ford wasn’t the only great uncle who’d given him a few tools to use in his arsenal. Some of the best advice he’d ever gotten from Stan Pines was that you didn’t have to throw the most punches to win a fight, you just had to avoid the most.

There wasn’t much room on the narrow catwalk to sidestep around her, but between teleporting just out of range and blocking her when he could, the Pilgrim managed to avoid a single hit. He didn’t want to overdo it though. For a bit of a breather, he teleported further down the catwalk and waited for her to see him.

She rolled her eyes at him. “You know, you should think about a name change. The Phantom Pushover really fits. You could still keep the costume.” In a flash, she shot towards him, just so she could flick the P in the center of his chest.

He leaned away from her and nearly overbalanced. He righted himself once he teleported again, then forced her off the catwalk with a rapidly expanding forcefield. She glided through the air, right out the open window she’d slipped in through.

“I see her,” Dipper told him before he even needed to ask. “She’s on the roof. East end.”

“Thanks.”

“Also your puns are terrible.”

Wirt took a moment to grin, shamelessly delighted by him. “I know.”

The Pilgrim teleported to the west side of the roof just in time for Boudin’s B to crash into him. He managed to cushion his fall with a forcefield, but it didn’t take away from the fact that getting hit in the face with a giant metal B really  _ hurt_. He could hear excited murmurs and shouts from the crowds below. A winged woman ripping a letter from a sign and throwing it at someone had a way of drawing attention.

And all these people had just seen him go down like it was nothing. Embarrassment rushed through him, chased by chilling concern that Dipper was among them and had seen him get hit and was now worrying. Right on cue, he heard the speaker in his mask crackle to life.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine,” was all he had time to wheeze, immediately teleporting away before the Bluebird could land another hit.

Her nails had extended into clawlike talons, sharp enough to slice through skin with ease. She swiped at him and he made himself dizzy with how quickly he teleported to get away from her. She was too fast for him to avoid with a forcefield though, so teleporting was his best option for quick, sudden steps. His current tactic was to tire her out, duck and roll until she was winded from her efforts, then bubble her in a forcefield and keep her there until the cops came. Surely they were on their way with all this commotion.

Too focused on her, he didn’t watch where he teleported and tripped over the fallen B from the sign. He stumbled and she socked him in the gut. Winded, he doubled over, then was clocked in the jaw. She swung in for another crack across his cheek, but he finally teleported out of her range and made himself invisible, hoping enough of the flour had settled. It was his easiest power, took the least out of him. He leaned against an air duct protruding from the factory, clutching at his belly and willing the ache in his jaw to fade.

“Oh, sorry, was that in your way? Here, let me move it for you.” The Bluebird lifted it and flung it at him.

He ducked and it soared right over his head, clear off the roof and down to the crowd below. Gasping he hurried to the edge of the building, mentally preparing to catch it, to stop it before it crushed anyone. It didn’t, but the tightness in his chest didn’t lessen as he watched where it fell. 

Its trajectory sent it right into the building across the street, the Big Bus Company, just as one of their last tour buses for the night pulled up. Tires squealed and brakes screeched as it veered out of the way, but the driver lost control. It spun out, careening into the path of an oncoming trolley and the dozens of pedestrians around them. 

The screams started before he could even think twice. The Pilgrim flickered back into view as his hands shot out, envisioning his fingers wrapping around the bus to keep it in place, to keep it from crashing into the trolley and all the innocent lives on the street below. People scattered, clutching loved ones and scrambling to get out of the way as the bus skidded and wobbled. All his concentration went into stopping it and the trolley, eyes wide behind his mask as his head pounded from the mental effort.

But he stopped them. Both of them. No one was hurt. He kept them all safe.

He didn’t even have time to breathe a relieved sigh before spots burst in his vision, pain exploding in the back of his head. White noise rang in his ears as he crumpled to the roof. A clawed hand snatched his cowl and dragged him back up, up and into the air. His stomach dropped as gravity vanished for a second, then returned with a vengeance as he fell back to earth.

His brain stuttered through teleporting or using a forcefield to break his fall, unable to settle on one with the blinding pain still pulsing through his skull. The decision was made for him when the Bluebird caught him by the ankle. Concussed and dangling upside down above the streets of San Francisco, Wirt felt a rough wave of nausea sweep through him.

People shouted - cheering or jeering, he couldn’t tell which - and it made his head pound harder. He thought he heard his name - his name, ringing in his ear - but he couldn’t answer as the Bluebird swung him into a building. He cried out, agony jolting through every nerve, in every bone. She swung him again and he managed to cushion himself with a small forcefield, the barrier causing him to bounce away from it. 

It also broke her grip on him. He dropped a few feet, startled into releasing his protection, and she snatched him again, carrying him higher. He tried to teleport out of her grasp, but she’d drop him before he could, let him fall for a second, then catch him. She did it again and again, keeping him dizzy and disoriented as the city and sky spun around him. Squeezing his eyes shut, he managed a small burst of power. A forcefield bubbled up and expanded out like a shove, to push her away from him. He flailed in the air, caught in a freefall, the sky spinning around him.

_ Teleport_, he thought to himself and felt the current of power sizzle and spark under his skin. He vanished, only to reappear a few inches higher, still in the air. Still falling. 

Choking on his own gasp, Wirt tried again, but he couldn’t get a good grip on where he wanted to go with nothing around to ground him. The white noise was still whistling in his ears, all static and sharp notes and he couldn’t even hear if Dipper was saying anything. His heart was racing, panic mounting, and his control slipped again and again, only able to teleport a little bit higher in the air, like a skip in a CD. He was scratched and couldn’t get past it.

_ Forcefield. _ Maybe if he used the forcefield, he wouldn’t break when he hit the ground. Wirt threw up a forcefield around himself and the white noise was screaming now as it flickered in and out of focus. He couldn’t hold it. He was going to die. This was it. This was the end.

With one last burst of energy, Wirt managed a forcefield that held long enough as he crashed into the bay. It shattered upon impact and he dropped into the ice cold water like a stone. The chill pierced his lungs through the gaps in his ribs and squeezed all the feeling out of his skin. His arms shot out, reaching for the surface, but the water slowed his movements, gripping his limbs and keeping them still.

He opened his eyes, but the salt water burned and he couldn’t see. It was too dark. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t breathe. His hood and cape weighed him down, all tangled up in it and dragged deeper into the water. It was in him, forcing his lips open and pouring inside to make him part of it. Panicked, a bright bubble of iridescent light surrounded him, but his forcefield couldn’t separate him from the water and he was still drowning in his own protection.

His head and limbs grew heavy, the cold not even cold anymore, just needles. Needles in every nerve to render them useless and immobile. His cry for help was swallowed up by the bay, stealing his voice and making him mute.

He couldn’t remember the last thing he’d said to Dipper that day before he left for work. Couldn’t remember if he kissed his cheek or his lips before they said goodbye. Couldn’t remember the feeling of their fingers brushing. It was so hard to remember how anything felt suspended in the cold.

Wirt’s fingers did twitch though, but they hardly made a ripple in the frigid, salt soaked bay. Not even a ripple. Had it even been worth it? Had any of this truly been worth it?

He wanted to be somewhere warm. Somewhere dry. Somewhere  _ safe_.

Then he was.

Air surrounded him so fast, his body convulsed in an effort to expel it because it was too much too soon and he was choking on it like the water. Flat on his back, sprawled against grass he couldn’t feel with his body so numb, Wirt spasmed and coughed until the bay bubbled back out of him. The salt still burned his throat, spilling past his lips as he coughed and coughed and cried until the air didn’t hurt anymore.

He managed to roll himself onto his side so he could expel the rest of the water, shivering and still so cold as he tried to curl up there on the ground. He didn’t know where he was, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting the water out, the air in, and for everything to stop hurting.

When it did, he wept. 

He could  _ breathe_. He could breathe and it didn’t hurt and he was on the ground. Not in the air, not in the water. Somewhere dry and somewhere safe.

Forcing his eyelids to lift, Wirt blinked to clear the water from his eyes. Figures blurred in front of him, voices speaking all around, but they were muffled and far away. Was it Dipper? Was he near, or had he flung himself too far? He couldn’t tell.

“Pilgrim?”

“D-di-” His teeth chattered and he couldn’t find his voice as his body seized up. “P-p… he- elp…”

“It really  _ is _ him. The Phantom Pilgrim.” The murmurs continued to circle him and someone touched him on the shoulder.

It wasn’t Dipper though, and he flinched away from the touch with a soft whine. “Don’t-”

“Sorry. I’m sorry, just trying to get you warm,” one of the voices told him, and something dry and warm was laid over him.

As his feeling came back, he recognized it as soft. A fleece jacket maybe, or something like one of Dipper’s flannels. Wirt burrowed against it, trying to soak up the dryness the same way his body had absorbed the cold. It helped ground him, awareness flicking on one switch at a time in his addled brain.

“Wuh- where…? Where ‘m I?”

“Fort Mason.”

He had the presence of mind to laugh at that, though it came out as a shivery snuffle. Wasn’t exactly what he had in mind. Dipper would probably find it funny, anyway. Weeks from now. They usually had a good laugh when he teleported to places that were close but not quite what he wanted. Like that time he’d tried to teleport over to Jack London Square and ended up in  _ actual _ London. If he hadn’t been panicking because it was the farthest he’d ever gone, he would’ve enjoyed it more, but Dipper and Mabel still got a good laugh out of it.

“You were over near Pier 39, right? That’s what people were saying.”

“Mmhm.” With a trembling hand, Wirt checked to make sure his mask was still on. “Did you see…?”

“No. Nobody saw anything. You’re safe, Pilgrim.”

Nodding, Wirt straightened his cowl and pushed himself up. His entire body protested against the movement, arms giving out at his elbows. Two people steadied him, but didn’t let their touches linger. He appreciated the help. Pressing on the side of his mask, he listened for the crackle of static or the little beep to let him know Dipper was online. There was nothing though. Just silence. It must have been damaged in the water, he didn’t think they’d thought to make things waterproof.

Great, so his boyfriend had no idea what had happened to him after he fell into the bay. He rubbed at his eyes, still seeing spots and still a little hazy. He needed to get back… except if the Bluebird was still there, he couldn’t face her again. Not like this.

His bag. His phone was in his bag at the house he was showing. He could call Dipper, let him know he was alright, and meet him at their apartment.

He just needed to teleport to the house in Haight-Ashbury first. Yeah…

“Thank you. I’m sorry about your jacket,” he murmured, handing it back to a young woman.

“Not at all. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Do you need a doctor?”

“Your face is all…”

Wirt shook his head. “No. Thank you, I’ll- I’ll be alright. I’ll figure something out. I promise,” he assured them, offering the concerned citizens a small smile. He didn’t want anyone worrying, not for his sake. “Stay safe. Get to your homes and- and be careful.”

With that he turned invisible, letting them think he’d vanished so the crowd would disperse. He never did well with teleporting in front of an audience, not unless it was a life or death situation. Steadying himself, he took a few calming breaths, then focused on teleporting to where he started the evening, hoping he’d end up where he was meant to.

\----

Danger came with the territory of dating a superhero. Dipper knew that. He knew all the risks, all the worst-case scenarios, all the actual close calls Wirt had to face on a day-to-day basis. 

He knew all of that, but that still didn’t keep his heart from stopping as he watched the man he loved fall from the sky into the dark water below. He couldn’t breathe, waiting, watching for some sign of him - any sign - to break free against the water’s surface. To struggle, to fight for life, instead of boneless and limp as he was dragged into the depths.

Wirt could “oh heck no” himself out of any situation he didn’t like, just a blink and he could teleport across town, across the country if he thought about it hard enough. He had a built in self-defense thingy, with his forcefields, putting up walls to keep him and everyone he loved safe inside. He trusted Wirt to do this because Wirt’s powers all screamed self-preservation. He knew Wirt would be okay because his powers were practically designed to keep himself okay.

Dipper clutched the railing of the pier, overlooking the bay as he waited. “C’mon, Pilgrim,” he whispered to himself. “C’mon, you’re okay. You’re okay. You have to be okay.”

The Bluebird had long since vanished with Boudin’s 160-year-old mother dough clutched in her talons. Most of the tourists dispersed, ready to continue on with the rest of their lives, unaware of the outcome for the bay area’s resident hero. They’d read about it later on Twitter. Some locals lingered with him, diehard fans assuring anyone who’d listen that the Phantom Pilgrim would be alright. He probably teleported himself out of the water, somewhere safe. This wouldn’t stop him. This couldn’t stop him.

Wirt couldn’t be  _ dead _ because of sourdough  _ bread starter_.

Dipper choked on his own hitching gasp, his white-knuckled grip tightening until his fingers cramped. Once it was in his head, he couldn’t get the idea out. Wirt couldn’t heal himself. Wirt wasn’t invincible or invulnerable. His bones could break just as easily as any person’s. He couldn’t hold his breath for longer than forty-two seconds - he knew, they’d timed it when they were kids, and Dipper beat him by five seconds, but he couldn’t even be happy about it because Mabel beat him by  _ seven_. 

Wirt had been in his life for as long as he could remember, he couldn’t just… he couldn’t just stop being there…

His phone rang in his pocket. Unaware of his body moving, he realized he let go of the railing once he lifted the phone to his ear. His own “hello” sounded foggy and faint and nothing like himself.

Everything sped up as Mabel started talking. “Dipper! What happened?”

“I…”

“Someone was livestreaming the fight, but the feed stopped after he fell. Have you heard from Wirt yet? How is he? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“_I don’t know_!” Dipper’s voice cracked as he dragged a shaking hand through his hair, his baseball cap falling to the ground as he stared and stared at the water until his vision blurred.

Mabel was silent for a minute, the horrifying thought sitting in their minds, neither of them willing to touch it first. They breathed together, Dipper’s eyes burning as he tried not to blink. If he blinked he might miss something.

“Do you think Greg saw?” Mabel finally asked quietly.

Dipper didn’t answer. Though they’d never outright told him about Wirt’s powers and his identity as a superhero, Greg was a smart kid. They were all sure he’d figured it out by now.

“I’ll check on him. I’ll call him and- and I’ll check,” she continued, mostly for the sake of filling the silence. “Is there anywhere he’d go? A safe place? If he was hurt or something?”

“Home,” Dipper replied softly. “But… but he’d call. Mabel, he’d call me, right? Wouldn’t he?” He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there, but he knew it was long enough.

“You should go home and see. Maybe he couldn’t make it to the phone. Maybe he passed out. It looked pretty bad.”

He knew how bad it looked. He’d been there. Front row seat as he watched his best friend and lover get pummeled within an inch of his life and he couldn’t do anything about it. He’d never felt so helpless.

No matter the costume he wore, the Phantom Pilgrim always looked like his Wirt. The scared kid reaching out for him to help him understand the strange things happening to him. The boy that never stopped needing him, who he needed just as much. He needed Wirt to be okay, he  _ needed _ him-

“Dipper.”

“Talk to Greg, Mabel. Make sure he’s okay.”

“_Dipper_-”

“I can’t leave him. If he’s still here, I can’t- I can’t-”

“He can’t still be there.”

“But what if he is?”

Mabel inhaled deeply to calm herself, both of their tempers fraying, splitting beneath the weight of what might have happened. “I’m calling you back after I talk to Greg. Okay, Dipper?”

He didn’t answer. Someone was calling on another line. He transferred over without saying goodbye, without even checking who it was.

“Hi…”

Dipper wheezed as his knees gave out, the pier railing the only thing keeping him upright. “_Hey_-”

“I’m okay.” Wirt didn’t sound okay.

His voice was weak, strained like he had a sore throat and his words slurring a bit like they did when he’d been knocked around one too many times or tired after a series of all-nighters. Dipper ached to wrap his arms around him, squeeze him tight so he could feel his chest rise and fall with the shallow breaths he could only hear puffing on the other end of the line. His arms were too empty without him,  _ he _ was too empty.

Wirt fell into the water and he didn’t come out.

Dipper squeezed his eyes shut. “Where are you?”

“The… the house I was showing earlier. C-communicator wasn’t wuh-working, so I… I needed to let you know… I’m okay.”

“Dammit, Wirt,” Dipper hissed, gritting his teeth as he trembled.

“I’m sorry-”

“Shut up. Can you get home?”

Wirt had to think about it, and that hesitation was all Dipper needed. “I think so…”

“Okay, I’m coming to get you. Stay there,” his voice warbled, nothing like the firm, “this is not up for discussion” tone he was aiming for. “I’ll pick you up.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I’m getting an uber now. Do not leave that house. Have you changed your clothes?”

“Not yet…” Wirt admitted, his own tone clipped like it got when he was annoyed.

Fine, he could be annoyed. Annoyed meant he was alive. “Change and dry off. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“I can just meet you at home-”

“_Wirt_.” Dipper pressed his fingers into his temples, every muscle still coiled tight and instincts screaming at him to protect, protect,  _ protect _ what was  _his_. “Please.”

The other end of the line was quiet for so long, he was scared that he hung up, but then Wirt made a tiny sound of affirmation, finally agreeing. He gave Dipper the address and promised to stay put. Distressed texts from Mabel flooded in as he flip-flopped from talking to Wirt to setting up his rideshare. He ignored her until he was in the car, en route to his best friend, and only then told her what she needed to know to fill in Greg and keep her from worrying herself.

The helpless feeling continued to churn in his gut, eating away at him bit by bit each minute he sat there in the backseat, alone. The familiar old buildings Wirt loved so much started cropping up, Dipper’s heart pounding as he sat on the edge of his seat, ready to fling open the door as soon as the car stopped. He never did well with sitting still.

Wirt was waiting for him on the steps of the house. It took him too long to stand on his own, his face crumpled in a wince the entire time. Though Dipper wanted nothing more than to grip him tight and press him close, he wouldn’t be the cause of any more pain, and forced himself to be content with taking him by the arm and walking him to the car.

Once in the backseat, Wirt slumped against him, still shivering as he rested his head on his shoulder. His hair was still damp and his skin cold, but Dipper pressed his lips to the top of his head and just held him for a minute. He could smell the salt in his hair, the metallic tang of blood where he’d been struck, the lingering aroma of fresh baked bread, and his own earthy scent somewhere underneath all that. His arm tightened around Wirt’s waist without thinking, grazing a bruise, but Wirt didn’t complain.

They didn’t speak for the entire ride. It was for the best, what could they have said in front of a stranger? Dipper was pretty sure Wirt dozed off for most of the trip home anyway. He nudged him awake once they crossed the bridge into Oakland. 

They had three locks on their front door. Dipper made sure they were all tightly fastened. Once the last one clicked, he dropped Wirt’s backpack at his feet and pressed his forehead against the door. They were home. Together.

Swallowing, Dipper turned around, seeking out his boyfriend. Wirt had gone straight for the couch, the throw blanket he kept draped over the back of it already bundled around him as he curled up. Dipper shook his head.

“You need a shower.”

“M’tired.”

He sounded so cute and sleepy, just like he did every morning before Dipper left for the Bay Bugle after a late night. It broke his heart. Though Dipper didn’t realize it, he must’ve made a sound because Wirt suddenly lifted his head and looked at him from between the folds of his blanket cocoon.

He twisted out of it, holding the corner open and inviting him in. “Dipper…”

Tossing his hat off somewhere between the front door and the couch, Dipper welcomed the embrace Wirt folded him into, clutching at his firm yet yielding body. Half off the couch, Dipper hid his face in his neck, warming the chilled skin with his breath, his lips, his mouth and soaking up every shudder as proof that he was alive.

Not sinking to the bottom of the bay. “I almost lost you.”

Wirt shushed him, petting his hair and his back, anywhere he could reach. A little bubble of a forcefield encased them both, gentle and warm with his love. The hum of its presence soothed Dipper, nothing could get them in here. They were together, they were safe.

But they couldn’t stay in a bubble forever.

Sooner or later, they’d be out there again. Wirt would be out there, risking his life for stakes greater than sourdough starter. Dipper clutched him tighter, pressing his lips over his pulse just so he could feel his heart beating.

“You can’t do this to me,” he scolded wetly.

Wirt hushed him again with gentle murmurs of nothingness, just so he could hear the sound of his voice. He didn’t say anything else because there was nothing he could say. It wouldn’t stop. There’d always be danger.

Eventually Wirt teleported them to the bedroom, too sleepy and too weak to actually make it onto the bed, materializing them in a heap on the floor. Dipper took it from there. He peeled off Wirt’s clothes and managed to get him in the shower just long enough to rinse the salt and blood from his skin and hair. Freshly damp and still shivering, Dipper sat him on the edge of their bed while he tended to the remaining visible wounds. There were the bruises over his ribs and abdomen, the swelling in his jaw and near his eye. Claw marks on his legs. A bump on the back of his head.

Dipper buttoned him up in a pair of his favorite pajamas, stripping down himself to join him under the covers. His skin was desperate for the grounding touch of Wirt’s, gorging itself on every inch he could reach. Police sirens wailed in the distance and they clung to each other tighter.

“I almost lost you,” Dipper whispered again.

Wirt tucked his head under Dipper’s chin. “But you didn’t,” he replied after a beat. “I’m still here. I’m still here.”

He repeated it through the night, both of them hoping the mantra would work its magic the more it was said. Hoping it would eventually sink in.  _ I’m still here. I’m still here. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Pinescone Week 2019  
Day 6: "Don't do this to yourself."
> 
> In the aftermath of the Phantom Pilgrim and the Bluebird's latest encounter, Wirt and Dipper struggle to align their priorities. Forcefields can protect them from what's lurking outside, but they don't do much good when it comes to protecting them from themselves.

“When you said you were going to design me a new suit, this isn’t what I had in mind…”

Blueprints lay scattered across their kitchen table, having overflowed out of the office and across the living room, seeking every inch of available space from coffee table to coat rack. Wirt plucked a sheet of paper free from where it was wedged into the umbrella rack base, both eyebrows lifting as he took in one of Dipper’s drafts. It was boxy and looked like it would be hell to get himself in and out of, which was actually the note his boyfriend had left on the edge.

It was the first glimpse Wirt had into what the new design entailed, but he quickly learned that they all shared very similar qualities. Steel chest plates. Helmets with visors and tracking systems. Rocket boosters that could suspend him midair or propel him forward like an airplane.

“Trying to turn me into Iron Man?” Wirt wrinkled his nose as he set down an equally wrinkled draft in front of Dipper, reading glasses sliding down his nose as he scribbled notes in the margins of his notebook.

A distracted hum was all the response he got. Wirt frowned harder as he watched Dipper reach for the mug resting by his elbow on instinct, then lift the edge of it to his lips. It took him a few seconds longer than it should have for him to realize it was empty. He blinked out of his flow to look inside it, finally noticing Wirt standing beside him.

“Did you say something? Sorry, you know how I get when I’m in a groove.”

Wirt flicked his gaze down at the dozens of discarded blueprints. “Doesn’t look like much of a groove…”

“It is. The ideas are flowing, it’s just the execution. Getting them to fit all together.” Dipper tried to take another sip from his empty mug, sighing as he took off his glasses and stood to go make another cup of coffee. “We still have hazelnut creamer?”

“Dipper, it’s four in the afternoon. Kind of late for coffee…” Wirt picked up Dipper’s tablet to take a closer look at what he was researching, flipping through tabs on metal alloys and calculations for aerodynamics and flexibility and stability. “What time did you come to bed last night?”

“Eh… sometime around three, I think? Then I got up at seven because I had this great idea while I was sleeping. Didn’t want to forget it.”

He was lying. Wirt had come home around a quarter past three, after stopping a sexual predator from attacking a young woman on her way home from a party. It hadn’t been the only one that night either, Friday night patrols always went late. They also always left Wirt exhausted. He’d seen Dipper was still up, but left him to it as he only had the energy to change before flopping into bed, then slept until noon.

But he always woke up when the mattress dipped under Dipper’s weight, when a kiss was pressed to his shoulder and an arm slung over his waist, or when he was pulled on for a cuddle so Dipper could be the one snug in his arms. Every time, without fail, no matter how tired he was. Even if it was only for a few seconds, he’d be awake enough to register that things were okay. That Dipper was okay.

Dipper did not  _ look _ okay.

Wirt watched him as he sniffed at the carafe with about three cups’ worth of coffee still in, trying to remember when he’d made this pot and if it was still any good. The bags under his eyes were darker than usual as he appeared to accept the coffee was good enough. He poured it into his cup and popped it in the microwave for forty-five seconds, idly scratching at the light scruff that started spreading along his jaw after three days of not shaving.

Dipper tried to kiss his cheek on his way back to the table, but Wirt pulled away with a grimace. “Don’t. You’re itchy.”

Hurt flickered in Dipper’s eyes, but he didn’t try again. “It’s not that bad,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”

“When was the last time you shaved? Or showered?”

Dipper rolled his eyes again, hackles rising when he was too tired to rein in the attitude. “What are you, my mom? Two days ago and yesterday. Like I said, not that bad.”

“Your stubble does not get that dark after two days.”

“So you’re an expert on my stubble now? When you never even let it touch you?” Dipper raised an eyebrow as he sipped his coffee.

“No, but I’m an expert on when you lie to me. And on trying to figure out why.” Wirt crossed his arms, meeting his gaze head on. “You didn’t sleep last night.”

“I did-”

“You didn’t. You were up working on this all night.”

Dipper rubbed his eyes, a crack in his cool, laid back demeanor allowing his exhaustion to bleed through. “So what if I was? I didn’t feel like sleeping and I wanted to work on this. It’s not like that’s a crime.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“You’re acting like it is.”

Wirt frowned. “I just want you to take care of yourself. Because I care about you.”

Dipper’s shoulders slumped as his defenses lowered. “I’m fine. I promise. Just… really into this new design. I want it to be perfect.”

They both looked down at the blueprints. Each and every design read: “too much!” in Wirt’s opinion, the warning flashing at him like neon lights, but every note from Dipper claimed it wasn’t enough. Wirt rocked unsteadily from side to side, biting his lip as he debated whether or not to say anything, before things got too out of hand, but Dipper made the decision for him.

“So what do you think of-?”

“I don’t like it.”

Dipper blinked down at his current project for a beat. “Okay,” he exhaled, then picked up a pencil. “What about it aren’t you feeling? I’ll take that into account for adjustments. Personally, I think the shoulders aren’t quite right, but they need to be broad to account for the lift-to-drag ratio in case you’re mid-flight…”

“But I don’t fly,” Wirt protested.

“Not yet. Not on your own. But with this, you could essentially use your telekinetic abilities to activate the necessary controls to give you the perceived ability of flight-”

“No, I- I don’t want that.” Wirt shook his head. “I don’t need that.”

“You can’t deny that it would be helpful to have,” Dipper pointed out. “Come on, how many times do you think being able to fly would’ve come in handy?”

“Probably a few,” he agreed begrudgingly. “But that doesn’t matter. I don’t want it. I like my suit the way it is.”

“This suit will still do everything your current one does,” Dipper argued. 

“How is  _ that _ supposed to fit under my clothes?”

“Well, okay. Except that.” Dipper chewed on the end of his pencil as he looked at the design. “But overall I think it’s a necessary sacrifice.”

“Necessary for what? My suit’s fine.  _ You _ designed it.”

Dipper waved that off. “And improvements can always be made. Trust me, Wirt. You need this. Just think of how all of this could’ve helped you in your fight with the Bluebird. All the risks that come with your crime-fighting would be essentially neutralized with just a few tweaks-”

“A few tweaks?” Wirt held up one of the drawings that looked more like Optimus Prime the Transformer than himself. “Dipper, this is completely different. This isn’t the Phantom Pilgrim.”

“It could be. You’ve got to adapt. You really think your enemies aren’t doing their research on you to exploit the weaknesses in your powers? The Bluebird knew you couldn’t fly. She knew you can’t heal yourself. She knew to take away your invisibility, your crutch. She’s smart, but not a genius. It’s only a matter of time before someone worse comes along-”

“Then we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

“That’s-” Dipper stared at him, unable to fully let that sink in. “No, that’s a terrible strategy. You don’t just wait for a worst-case scenario to happen to fix things, Wirt. We need to be prepared for them before that happens!”

“I am more prepared, Dipper. I underestimated the Bluebird last time. It won’t happen again.”

“Yeah, because I’m fixing your suit so it’s actually useful.”

His current suit did everything he himself could do. It was a reflection of his powers, his abilities. Maybe it wasn’t what Dipper meant, but what Wirt heard was that his powers weren’t good enough. He wasn’t good enough.  _ He _ needed an upgrade.

Wirt set the blueprint down and left the kitchen. “If you build that, I won’t wear it.”

“Are you serious?” Dipper sighed. “You’re just going to walk away? Really?”

“What? Discussion’s over. I’m not wearing anything that looks like that,” he called from the hallway.

“It’s still in development! Who knows what the final product will look like?” Dipper hollered back to him.

“If it doesn’t look like my current suit, then I’m not putting it on.”

“Your current suit doesn’t offer you nearly as much protection as it could!”

“I have forcefields, Dipper. I don’t need a suit to do that for me.”

That got Dipper moving. Wirt sat down on their bed, the book in his hand more of a prop than something he was actually planning on reading right then. He waited for his boyfriend to appear in the doorway, leaning against it as he stared blandly at him.

“Where were your forcefields when you got punched in the stomach? Or your jaw? Or your eye? You can’t protect yourself from everything, Wirt.”

He bristled. “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do. They’re my powers.”

“Yeah, and who was with you the whole time figuring out how to help you use them? How to not be afraid of them? How to actually  _ do _ something with them?”

“Just because you were there doesn’t mean you know what it’s like!” Wirt snapped.

“Seriously?” That got Dipper glaring at him. “You seriously think I don’t know what it’s like?”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

“This can’t all be because of the suit.” Dipper pinched the bridge of his nose, massaging the tension collecting behind his eyes.

“You’re right. The suit is just the icing.” Wirt set the book aside, giving up any pretenses. “You’ve been acting weird ever since my fight with the Bluebird. I get it. It was scary and I’m sorry you were so worried-”

“Wirt, I thought she was going to kill you!”

“But she didn’t. I’m okay.” Wirt stood, arms out so Dipper could see all of him as he approached him. “I’m okay and next time I face her, I’ll be more careful.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know what kind of scenario she’s going to set up so you’re at a disadvantage.”

“Neither do you,” he argued.

“No, but at least I’m trying to counter it. I’m trying to make you  _ safe_.”

“Well, stop it. I didn’t ask you to.”

Dipper threw his arms up in his frustration. “So what? I don’t ask you to do half the stupid things you’re always doing to make yourself feel better, but I let you do it anyway.”

“What?”

“Your forcefields. Ford and I designed a state of the art security system for this apartment that no one is getting through without you and I knowing about it and you  _ still _ put forcefields around us when you sleep. All the time! I could get mad about it, but I decided to think it was sweet and not that you think I can’t take care of myself.”

Embarrassment curdled in his stomach, Wirt’s arms wrapped tightly around his middle. “I don’t… I don’t do that, do I?”

Dipper cooled down a bit as he observed him. “Wait, you didn’t know?”

“No… I mean, I think about it sometimes, but…” Wirt’s eyebrows furrowed, goosebumps pimpling under his sweater as a chill swept through him. “Do I trap you in them?”

“No. I usually just nudge you and tell you to stop and you do.” Dipper eyed him carefully, concerned by the growing alarm he could see in his expression. “I’ve never felt trapped. Surprised the first few times, but like I said, overall I thought it was sweet.”

“But I didn’t even know I was doing it…”

“Well, I didn’t know that. I figured it was just something you decided to do right before falling asleep.” Dipper took a step closer to him. “We can run some sleep tests with Grunkle Ford if that’ll make you feel better. See what’s going on with your powers while you’re asleep.”

Wirt nodded, still squeezing himself. He could feel the familiar swell of his forcefield wanting to make itself known. The protective bubble could easily encase him without much thought, but his self-control over that urge was more comforting in the moment. Dipper’s gaze softened and he reached out for him, gently cupping Wirt’s elbows. Nothing that would feel confining, just some contact to reassure him he was there.

“You’ve never done anything else. I’ve never felt like you weren’t in control of something with me.”

“Okay…”

“But do you see, Wirt? You’re worried about accidentally hurting me with your powers, and I’m worried about you getting hurt while in something I made to help keep you safe. It’s the same thing. I don’t have powers, so this- this is all I can do. I can make things for you. It’s the only way I can stand between you and something that wants to hurt you.” Dipper gave him a squeeze, tugging him closer so their foreheads could touch. “That’s all I’m trying to do. Please let me.”

Wirt exhaled on a shaky breath, then nodded again and wrapped his arms around his boyfriend and hugged him tight. “I’m sorry.”

“I might’ve gotten a bit carried away, too, so… it’s not all your fault.” Dipper laid his cheek against Wirt’s shoulder. “And maybe I can tweak the design so it’s not so… bulky.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ll get Mabel to help with your aesthetic,” he huffed out a laugh. “I still want it to be something you like. Even though I don’t see what’s wrong with looking like Iron Man.”

“Of course you wouldn’t.” Wirt rolled his eyes. “You’ve always liked Tony Stark.”

“What? I think he’s relatable.”

“Yeah, you’re both completely insufferable,” Wirt chuckled, then yelped when Dipper pinched his butt playfully. “Don’t start that.”

“No?” Dipper grinned as he got him again, then lifted up to his toes to brush his lips against his ear. “Thought this was what you were going for, luring me back to the bedroom like this…”

“I was  _ going _ for you taking a nap.”

“Still involves a bed.”

“Dipper!”

“What if I promise to take a nap after?” he laughed, arms winding around Wirt’s shoulders.

“You’re the worst. But I’ll take it.” Wirt rolled his eyes as he kissed him, each peck wringing a giggle from them both until they lost themselves to each other’s lips for a little while. The worries of tomorrow shut out of the comfort of their bedsheets and their bodies.

\----

They never got the suit quite right. Not by Wirt’s standards, or Mabel’s for that matter, and none of their compromises sat well with Dipper. It didn’t help that the technology he had available to him wasn’t cooperating either. The cloaking microchips attuned to Wirt’s cells reacted well enough when sewn through in fabric, but the same technology didn’t yield the same results in a metal suit. Metal was also too noisy, which defeated the whole point of Wirt turning invisible in the first place.

They could make the fabric that comprised his suit more dense, harder for blows to penetrate, but anything too heavy slowed Wirt down, which was just as dangerous. He also had a harder time using his intangible powers if his clothes were too heavy. They’d had to deal with quite a bit of him getting stuck in walls when testing that power as kids, and quite a bit of “wallflower” jokes from Dipper to Wirt.

Dipper wasn’t going to give up though. There had to be a way he could help. 

He’d managed to create a little device he called a homing beacon. It was a button the size of a quarter that Mabel was able to stitch into the design of the P on the newest version of the suit. If pressed, it would immediately teleport Wirt to the location of its partner device, which Dipper built into his com system that he already kept on him for constant communication with the Phantom Pilgrim. If Dipper pressed the button on his end, he would be the one to activate Wirt’s teleportation ability - outside of his control - and call him to wherever he was. 

It was only to be used in dire situations, life or death, Dipper had assured Wirt when he first tested it out with him. Like that time with the bay. Wirt took his word for it, but barely a week into having the homing beacon on, Dipper already went trigger happy on it and called him to him three times. The first, in his defense, had been because the Bluebird showed up at a heist the Phantom Pilgrim was trying to stop, unexpected and catching them both by surprise. She’d swooped down from the sky and Dipper didn’t hesitate to teleport Wirt out of there. After that, his nerves were shot and he did it again on two different occasions without prompting.

Wirt told him he’d need to turn it off if he couldn’t stop using it, so he promised he’d exercise more restraint.

It still wasn’t enough though. There had to be more that he could do. Dipper couldn’t continue to watch from the sidelines, helpless to do anything other than occasionally shout in Wirt’s ear. He needed more, he  _ deserved _ more. If Dipper couldn’t physically be at Wirt’s side, then he absolutely needed to give him the next best thing.

Except… why  _ couldn’t _ he physically be there?

There was a thought…

\----

Wirt had long moved past worrying. 

Weeks had turned to months of hyper focus that bordered on obsession. No, it  _ was _ an obsession. Wirt knew Dipper well enough to recognize the signs, had been by his side for most, if not all, of his interests that kept him from sleeping and filled his notebooks with theories until they became more like the rambling delusions of a madman than anything that made sense.

When they were kids, it was easier to shake Dipper out of it. Mabel would step in, or his parents or grunkles. His grades would slip and he’d snap back to attention. Sometimes the interest would run its course, and he’d slow down on his own until he could put it away, until he’d be back to being Wirt’s best friend again. Wirt could usually wait these out with him, only worrying or making a fuss if Dipper seemed like he’d become an actual danger to himself.

Wirt’s superpowers had been the focus of several of these obsessive bouts throughout their lives, but never to this extent. They weren’t even the focus anymore, just the catalyst. The flick of a finger that tipped the first domino and now Wirt couldn’t catch them without knocking over the rest.

The Bay Bugle called him when they couldn’t reach Dipper at home or on his cell phone, in the middle of him negotiating a sale with clients. He was listed as the emergency contact for him. Apparently Dipper had been late on two assignments and they hadn’t seen him in the office lately, so they wanted to check in. Wirt lied, hating himself as he apologized and wove some story about Mabel needing emergency surgery and that Dipper was focused on looking after her and he must’ve forgotten to ask for an extension. He hoped karma wasn’t listening.

He’d been trying his best to make sure Dipper slept and ate, but between his work in real estate and the late nights patrolling the area, he was already stretched pretty thin. Battling with his boyfriend about taking care of himself wasn’t something he wanted to add to his task list, especially when Dipper started avoiding him.

Tired of the nagging and the way Wirt kept moving his research so it didn’t take over their apartment, Dipper spent his nights in his great uncle’s lab. As someone who could sympathize with ‘the drive to discover and the crippling need to create,’ Ford wasn’t always someone Wirt could depend on to kick Dipper out when he needed it. As brilliant as they could be together, they were also dangerous to be around each other in certain moods, creating an endless brainstorm loop that they kept feeding with their ideas.

Apparently Ford was just as interested in Dipper’s project as he was, and saw no reason to stop him.

If they could create a super suit for someone with superpowers, then why couldn’t they create something for someone without them? They wouldn’t have to work around the limitations of the “organic abilities,” as they liked to call it, and instead could find a way to fabricate whatever enhanced abilities they wanted. Super strength and super speed to keep it on par with the Bluebird, flight and x-ray vision. Energy blasts for offensive tactics.

Dipper could make himself into whatever superhero he wanted. He had the technology. He had the insight.

But he was wasting away. Losing weight, not socializing, not going outside. He snapped at every perceived criticism, his temper wobbling dangerously between extremes. He was hurting himself and didn’t even see it, or didn’t even care. “When it’s finished,” became his mantra. “I’ll eat when it’s finished. I’ll sleep when it’s finished. I’ll be okay when it’s finished.”

Wirt and Mabel tried to keep on top of him when they could, but he did a very good job of making that as difficult as possible. Still, they couldn’t let him lose his job over this. They couldn’t let him lose his grip on reality. They had to try and tether him back to the real world.

Though he felt a twinge of guilt about it, Wirt teleported himself and Mabel into Ford’s lab without his permission on the night the Bay Bugle called. They agreed to ‘good cop, bad cop’ this whole situation, tag team so that maybe between the two of them, they could wrestle Dipper away from his research and keep him in bed for a solid twelve hours. If Dipper could just get some sleep - good, decent, deep sleep - then maybe he’d realize how insane all of this was. That he couldn’t go on like this.

They found him in a dimly lit corner of Ford’s lab, the overhead halogen lights turned off in favor of two desk lamps aimed precisely at Dipper’s workstation. Several corkboards were plastered with printouts and formulas, designs for a completely new super suit illustrated on display. His research on the Bluebird’s activity was also down here now, more pins and threads connecting things in a web that made no sense at all. 

Dipper himself was surrounded by soda cans, energy drinks, and wrappers from granola bars, easy snacks for long nights. A mask covered his face to protect his eyes as he welded something together, something that looked like a nervous system for an arm based off his own. He paused and pressed a button. The hand at the end of the robotic arm made a fist, though the thumb didn’t curl in quite right.

Dipper cursed under his breath, then pushed the button again and flipped up his mask, grabbing a screwdriver to tweak something that needed fine tuning. The lines beneath his eyes were deeper than Wirt had ever seen them, so dark that they looked bruised. There was a foggy film over his eyes, normally so bright and alert and beautiful, and the whites were tinged with red from hours of rubbing to keep them from closing.

His stubble was back, worse than before, but he’d been showering somehow at least. His hair was freshly washed, and there was a travel bottle of shampoo at his workstation. Wirt didn’t see a toothbrush though, or a comb or deodorant. Well, there was a reason they were there, after all.

“Bro,” Mabel sighed, voice soft so she wouldn’t startle him with their sudden appearance. “I think you’ve been down here long enough. How about we go to Fenton’s and get some ice cream. It’s been a while since we’ve had a brainfreeze battle, huh? You know, with the milkshakes?”

“Maybe later.”

He sounded normal enough, Wirt relieved that his voice at least didn’t sound like it had gone unused for the past several days. He must have been recording himself for notes, or talking with Ford or Ford’s assistant. But there was still something off, something distant about him.

Mabel exchanged glances with Wirt, then puffed up her cheeks as determination hardened in her eyes. “No, not later. Now, Dipper. Enough’s enough. We’re worried about you.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? You don’t need to worry, I’ve got everything under control.” Dipper didn’t look up from what he was working on.

“No, you don’t. You’ve been ignoring mine and Greg’s texts for weeks now and your boyfriend just had to lie to your boss because they haven’t heard from you! You’ve been late on your last two assignments, Dipper! That’s not okay!”

“That doesn’t matter. Won’t be working there much longer anyway,” he muttered.

Mabel and Wirt stared at him. “What?” Mabel gasped.

“Why?” Wirt pressed. “I thought- I thought you liked it there. I thought you liked writing the articles about…”

“What good does that do though?” Dipper scoffed. “Writing articles doesn’t help you keep the city safe or benefit you in any way. It’s a waste of my time. This is what I need to focus on. This is where my talents can be put to actual use.”

Wirt’s heart sank. “I don’t think it’s a waste… I love your articles. And- and what about helping me on my patrols or when I’m up against people like Gideon or the Bluebird? You help me, Dipper. That’s helpful, I don’t need any more than that.”

“Well, I do. It’s not good enough for me.” Dipper set down his tools, but not to look at them. He rolled his chair over to his computer and started to type, fingers flying rapidfire across the keyboard. “Can we talk about this later? I’m in the middle of something.”

“We’ll take you home by force if we need to, Dipdop.” Despite the childhood nickname, Mabel sounded dead serious as she strode over to him. “Don’t think we won’t.”

“Stop it, Mabel. I’m busy.”

Mabel waved her hand in front of Dipper’s eyes and he smacked her away from him. Wirt’s eyes widened as she recoiled with a gasp. It likely hadn’t hurt all that much, but that wasn’t the point. She looked to Wirt as she cradled her wrist.

“Dipper, we’re serious.”

“So am I. Can you just go?”

Wirt glanced down at the cords for the computer. Mabel nodded solemnly and he closed his eyes against the sudden pressure in his chest. He visualized the outlet and the plug, then mentally tugged. The computer screen went black.

Dipper smashed his fist against the keyboard. He spun in chair to glare at them both, eyes red and dark and livid despite his exhaustion. Mabel actively stepped back from him, giving him space, while Wirt took a tentative step closer.

“What’s  _ wrong _ with you?” Dipper shouted at them. “Do you know how much work I just lost? It’s going to take me all night to get it all back!”

“No it’s not,” Wirt told him gently. “You’re done working on this, Dipper. We’re going home.”

“What do you mean ‘I’m done working on this?’ What are you talking about?”

Wirt couldn’t meet his gaze, his stomach churning whenever he tried. “Mabel, you’ll take care of it, like we talked about?”

“Yeah. I’m on it,” she answered, just as sadly. “I’ll check in when I’m done.”

“Thanks.”

Dipper’s attention whirled between the two of them, bristled like a caged animal and unable to trust either of them. “What are you two talking about?”

Wirt closed the distance between them and latched onto his wrist. In a blink they were back in their apartment, dusk coloring their bedroom through the slats in the blinds. Dipper gasped and pulled away from him, now his turn to hold his wrist to his chest protectively.

“What the hell, man!”

“We need to talk,” Wirt told him.

Dipper crossed his arms, angled away from him. “You could’ve just said that. You didn’t need to drag me away from my work and make me lose  _ everything_.”

“I tried. You weren’t listening.”

“Because I was in the middle of something. I couldn’t stop right that second, Wirt! You could’ve given me ten minutes at least!”

Dipper rarely shouted at him, rarely had any reason to be truly angry with him, and it had Wirt’s eyes smarting as he blinked to keep his tears at bay. “I’ve given you months,” he whispered. “But it’s just been getting worse. It has to stop. I don’t want you doing this to yourself anymore, Dipper. It’s not okay.”

“Yeah, well, it’s what’s necessary,” Dipper fired back.

Wirt shook his head. “No, it’s not. No one’s making you do this.”

“I am.”

“Then stop it. Stop putting yourself through this. I can’t stand it.”

Dipper hesitated a moment, something recognizable flickering in his eyes for a second before it was gone and replaced with the tired, frayed edges of this shadow of his usual self. “You’ll be happier once I’m done. We both will! What I’m doing- it’ll change everything! We can be a real team, like we’ve always wanted!”

“I thought we were a real team.”

“But this will be different. I can fight beside you. I can protect you. I can actually  _ do _ something instead of just sitting on the sidelines and hoping things’ll turn out okay! You always said that I should’ve been the one with the powers, right? It’s been so obvious, I don’t know why I didn’t think to do this years ago!”

Wirt bit down on his lower lip. “Because it’s too much. It’s taking too much of you, Dipper. Don’t you see that?” 

He didn’t need someone to fight crime beside him. He needed Dipper, his best friend, his boyfriend, his light in the darkness. He needed someone to come home to, to remind him that he was more than the Phantom Pilgrim. He needed someone who just needed him to be Wirt.

But he’d been thinking lately that maybe it didn’t go both ways. Maybe Dipper didn’t need him in the same way. Maybe Dipper didn’t need all of this in his life.

“What’s Mabel doing with my stuff? What did you tell her to do?” Dipper demanded, switching gears.

“She’s hiding it,” Wirt answered honestly. “She’s not destroying it or anything, but I don’t know where she’s putting it. Maybe when you’re thinking clearly-”

“‘_Thinking clearly_?’”

“-then she’ll give it back to you, but right now… right now it needs to be far away from you. For your own sake, Dipper.”

“I can’t believe you!” Dipper threw his hands up in frustration, taking to pacing the room. “I’d expect this kind of thing from Mabel, yeah, but I can’t believe you helped her! You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“I’m sorry,” Wirt murmured.

“How would you like it if I took all your poetry and music and hid that from you?”

“I wouldn’t. So I get it. You get to be mad, but that’s not changing anything. It’s done, Dipper. You’re done. Grunkle Stan is going to talk with Ford and… and he’s going to let it stay done, too.”

Dipper shook his head, ready to snap at him, but somehow reined it in. He tried twice more to say something, but he just tugged at his hair and spun on his heel and wrestled with himself. His words were all muddled together, like soup in his sluggish brain. He didn’t know what to say.

“I can’t even look at you right now.” Dipper brushed past him, storming into the office and slamming the door behind him.

Wirt flinched, tears finally dripping down his cheeks once he was alone. He buried his face in his hands and breathed out a long, low groan of frustration. He’d hoped… he’d hoped it wouldn’t have had to come to this. He’d hoped that Dipper would’ve just gone with him and Mabel when they first asked, so they could talk things out. So they could fix this.

He and Mabel of course had backup plans in case things didn’t go as they hoped, plan B and C and D…

But there was one plan Mabel didn’t know about. A plan Wirt thought he’d never have to consider unless Dipper’s very life depended on it. It certainly wasn’t a plan he thought he’d have to put into action because he needed to save Dipper from himself. But this wasn’t the first time his powers had caused Dipper to spiral, and he knew, deep down, that it wouldn’t be the last. Not if things stayed the way they were.

It was a terrible plan, but then Wirt had never been the best at planning. That was Dipper’s area of expertise.

Taking a shaky breath, wiping the tears from his eyes, Wirt took in their bedroom. They had a print of a Monet painting on the wall above their headboard, one they’d seen at the San Francisco MoMA on one of their first official dates.  _ San Giorgio Maggiore by Twilight_. They’d both liked the colors, and it reminded them a little of their own bay area home. They used it to decide on the color palette for their bedroom once they moved in together. Reds and oranges and blues. The colors of a dying day. The colors of time lost.

No more light.

When he was ready, he sat on the edge of the bed and waited. The sun sank outside and the room turned blue, then black with the night. Wirt didn’t turn on a light. He watched the golden sliver he could see beneath the door to Dipper’s office. And he waited.

The digital alarm clock on Dipper’s side read nine-thirty by the time the office door opened. Hallowed by the light behind him, Dipper considered Wirt’s shadowed form from across the hall quietly. Like he expected him to be right where he left him. A constant.

Wirt had done all his crying, his eyes stayed dry as he stared back. Dipper would need him to be the strong one this time. The one to carry the burden. It would only work if he did.

Dipper released a heavy sigh and crossed the hall, ready to enter the bedroom once again. The toe of his shoe bumped into a duffle bag he couldn’t see in the dark. Dipper looked down at it. It was stuffed full.

He looked up, over at the nightstand on Wirt’s side. The books that had been piled there were gone. The sweaters that had been folded on top of the dresser were gone. If he’d taken the time to look in the bathroom, he’d have seen that one toothbrush was missing and Wirt’s shampoo would be gone from the shower.

Wirt saw the moment it clicked.

“What-” Dipper’s breath hitched and he had to take a minute to catch it. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going away for a little while.”

“What does that mean?” Dipper asked quickly.

“It means I’m going away and I don’t know when I’ll be back,” Wirt replied, careful to keep his voice steady while Dipper shook his head.

“No. No, you can’t- I’m sorry. I thought about what you said and you’re right. You were right, Wirt, and I’m so sorry.”

Wirt swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Me too.”

Dipper looked at him in stunned horror. “You can’t be serious. You can’t- you’re not leaving. You’re my- we’re- there’s so much between us, you’re not just-”

“When my next sale is finalized, I’ll send you a portion of my check for the rent, so you don’t have to worry about that. Just in case you don’t feel like going back to work right away.”

“Wirt-”

“And I’ve turned off the coms. And the tracking… the homing beacon, too.” Wirt held his gaze, unwavering even as it ripped him into the tiniest pieces he could imagine. He didn’t even feel like himself anymore. “Please don’t look for me.”

“This is insane,” Dipper choked. “Come on, Wirt. I- I love you. I love you so much. I just- I just wanted to keep you safe.”

“I know. But I’m done, Dipper. This is the end.”

Dipper shook his head, biting down on his lip as tears sprung to his tired eyes. “You don’t mean that. You can’t.”

“Don’t do anything stupid or dangerous and just… try and stay away from all this superhero stuff. It’s not worth it, Dipper. It never was.”

“Wirt, please. Please don’t do this.”

He stood up, taking the handle of the duffle bag. “Bye, Dipper. Thank you for everything, and… and I’m sorry I couldn’t take better care of you.”

“No. No, Wirt, stop. Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare go-  _ Wirt_!”

One second he was standing in the bedroom, and then he wasn’t. In a blink he was gone and Dipper was left standing there alone. He reached out blindly, feeling the air in front of him, all around him, in case he was just invisible. In case it was just a trick.

But the bedroom was empty.

Only the phantom presence of what had been left in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I promise I hate this as much as you all do, lol. But the angst was bound to show up at some point...  
This isn't the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Sylvia wanted you all to know that she deserves all the credit for the final scene of this fic. Here are her incredibly valuable and super secret notes:
> 
> "The Phantom Pilgrim teleported to Dipper's bed for cuddles, but almost got lost. The end 🤗"
> 
> Literary genius. She's the total package, I can't compete.


End file.
